Kismet
by vylonohm
Summary: Taking part in Mahaad's plan to trap Thief King Bakura causes Priest Set to meet Kisara under vastly different circumstances. (Ancient Egypt AU, Priest Set/Kisara)
1. Khat

"Wake up! You must wake up!"

Urgent words plucked unwelcomely at Set's awareness. His head hurt; the closer he came to waking, the brighter the pain burned. He wanted to sink back down into the quiet darkness of insensibility.

"Please wake up, Set!" A cool hand shook his arm, and Set felt a vague twinge of outrage. Who was this stranger to command him, to touch his person? Him, a high priest of the royal palace, a personal guardian of the Pharaoh!

 _The Pharaoh...the thief_! Memory rushed back to Set: discovering that fool Mahaad's plan to trap the Thief King, and unable to sway his fellow priest from his intended course, Set had fought Bakura alongside Mahaad. They had seriously injured the thief but had failed to destroy his Diabound, and during the struggle, Set and Bakura had tumbled into the pit beneath the former Pharaoh's tomb. Set remembered Mahaad reaching after him as Set fell, casting a spell that Set had never heard before, a spell of transport and safety. And then?

"Open your eyes!"

Set did so. Blackness and pain greeted him. His body jerked and he clapped his hands over his eyes, swearing like the fishermen in his childhood village condemning a crocodile for stealing their catch.

The girl who had woken him removed her presumptuous hand from his arm. "Oh, be still, you will hurt yourself further," she cautioned.

Set told the speaker in no uncertain terms where she could stick her advice. Heedless of his anger, the girl remained at his side, a cool, pale presence in a hot, dark world.

"Where am I?" demanded Set when he regained the ability to speak a language other than that of pain and rage. Mud and grass itched his back, while locusts and other insects filled the air with an endless, tuneless song. He thought he could hear water not far off. "Along the Black River?"

"Not far from the capitol," confirmed the voice.

Slowly Set took his hands from his face and opened his eyes once more. "I-I cannot see!"

"Your head is bleeding. The injury likely blinded you."

Set swore again, more at his general situation than at the speaker this time.

"It may not be permanent," the stranger suggested meekly once he'd run out of ways to curse.

"Help me. Bind the wound," Set commanded her. "I must not die."

"You won't die so long as I live, but I have no linen for bandages. I need to find some."

"There should be a dagger at my belt. Cut my cape; use that. Who are you?"

"Kisara," said the stranger.

Set had meant to ask what trade the woman practiced, what role she held in society; her name meant nothing to him. Kisara took Set's dagger from his waist and, after removing the cape from his shoulders, she began to slice the cloth into long, thin strips.

A thought occurred to the priest. "I had a treasure with me. A golden rod."

The girl wordlessly pressed a familiar metal staff into his hand. Dumbfounded, Set reached out with his meager remaining magic to confirm that, yes, he held the Millennium Rod in his grasp. Its presence constituted a small collection of miracles: that the Thief had not wrested the Rod from him, that the river waters had not swallowed it as they bore Set downstream, and that this strange woman-Kisara-had not stolen it while he slept. As Set marveled at the vagarities of his fate, trying to decide if the gods were punishing him or not, the girl worked on his bandages in near silence, only speaking up after a minute had passed.

"Do not fall asleep," she reminded him.

"I wasn't," snapped the priest, who nearly had.

"Speak with me. Tell me how I can help you next. You must be an educated person, to be dressed so well; you likely know more about healing than me."

Though a part of Set wished the girl would just shut up and let him pass out already, he couldn't muster up much annoyance at her talk: Kisara spoke quietly but clearly, without over-affecting humble speech patterns as commoners tended to do in Set's presence. Her voice was currently the only sound that didn't make Set feel as though someone was driving the pointed end of the Millennium Rod through his skull.

"First of all, rank carries no guarantee of intelligence. If you knew half the Pharaoh's court, you'd understand that," he snorted. "Second of all, my specialty lies in martial sorcery, which is rather the opposite of healing."

"You are a...witch?" asked Kisara.

Despite his sorry state, Set retained enough pride to feel offended. "I am a high priest of Kemet! I practice magic sanctioned by the Pharaoh, the worldly keeper of _Ma'at_. It is _not_ witchcraft."

"Of course not," Kisara murmured quickly. "Please forgive me."

Her obvious embarrassment inspired a crumb of magnanimity from Set: "I suppose," he allowed, "an untrained person with little knowledge of the priesthood would have trouble telling the difference."

He heard a final tearing noise, then Kisara said, "I'm done making the bandages. I wish I had time to wash them first; the part of the river I found you in is not clean. But we must stop your bleeding."

Set had wondered about the foul odor hanging in the air. He gritted his teeth, vowing to drag Thief King Bakura through every sewer and garbage-heap in the palace-ideally before or during the leisurely process of killing him, but Set would settle for after if necessary.

"Do what you must," he muttered.

With his cooperation, Kisara maneuvered Set so he sat against a squarish boulder, then began to bind his wound. Set remained stoic in response to the brush of her hands over his head, but when a silken strand tickled his cheek unexpectedly, he jumped.

"What was that?" he demanded.

"My hair. I'm sorry."

Set covered his embarrassment with annoyance: "Use one of the bandages to tie it back. Why do you keep your hair so long? Don't you get lice?"

"I've cut it many times, but it grows back quickly. Lice don't plague me."

"Truly?" Set felt intrigued despite himself. Only years of training had strengthened his ba to the point at which it deterred such parasites. _This girl may possess a naturally powerful soul. I wonder if a ka spirit dwells within her_ , he thought. Even if Set had possessed full command of his magic and vision, he would not have been able to discern the contents of the girl's soul on his own, as the Millennium Rod's powers ran more towards domination than revelation. Perhaps once he'd recovered enough to return to the palace, Set would bring the girl along for Shadaa or Akhnadin to examine.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?" Kisara inquired as she finished her bandaging.

Set's body hurt _everywhere_ else, but... "Nowhere as much as my head."

Nervousness coloring her voice for the first time since she'd woken him, Kisara observed, "You will need clean water to drink soon. We'll find none here."

"Are we far from your home?" asked Set.

"I have none."

She was a vagrant, then. That raised more questions than it answered, but Set focused on the practicalities of their situation. "What is our distance from the closest well or settlement?" he asked.

"There is a small village half an _iter_ away," the girl admitted, "but the last time I begged folks for drinking water there, they chased me off with sticks."

No act of human cruelty tended to surprise Set, whose duties included extracting literal manifestations of wickedness from criminals' souls, but the harsh treatment Kisara described struck him as unusual. To simply deny someone water was one thing; to spend time and effort shooing that person away was another.

"Why did they chase you? Did you try to steal from them?" he asked.

"No. It's only that I am very ugly. People think I'm cursed."

"You have a deformity?"

"I suppose I do, though it doesn't cause my body any difficulty...not like a hunched back or clubbed feet," she said.

"Well, at least one of us is relatively hale. I still can't see," muttered Set, unable to fully conceal his anxiety over the fact. If his loss of vision proved permanent, better that he should have died in battle, for what use was a blind guardian to the Pharaoh?

Abruptly frustrated with sitting slumped on the ground like a cripple, Set braced his palms against the stone behind him, making to push himself up onto his feet. His battered body registered multiple protests, and vertigo overtook him as he rose.

"Oh, no, don't...!"

Kisara spoke from his right side. Set swayed to his left in order to vomit up bile and river water. The agony in his head redoubled and he fell over onto his hands and knees, still holding the Rod. His skin went cold and clammy despite the midday sun.

"You musn't strain yourself. You'll pass out again," fretted Kisara.

"Yes, all right. Fine," rasped Set between painful coughs. His arms could barely hold him up; Kisara, seeing this, helped move Set back into his previous sitting position.

"I didn't mean to complain before. I'll get clean water somehow. But I must find you shelter from the sun first."

She sounded half-frantic with worry. It didn't make any sense to Set: what personal stake could Kisara possibly have in his well-being? If she feared retribution for allowing him to die under her care, she should have passed Set by without attempting to help him in the first place. Perhaps she was simply stupid.

"I'll fetch some leaves from a palm tree I saw not far away. If we lay them on the rock shelf above your head, they should shade you. May I use your knife again?" she asked.

Set waved a hand impatiently: fine. Kisara took the dagger and departed hurriedly upstream, leaving Set to recover from his latest bout of sickness in resentful silence. The indignity of it all, he seethed. To have been defeated by a crazy tomb robber, to be rendered a blind invalid dependent upon the mercies of a deformed simpleton!

There was something about that simpleton, though. Set realized that Kisara's voice sounded vaguely familiar to him. How did he know it? Did he truly know it? His head injury might be deceiving him.

"Fool," he muttered, not knowing if he meant himself or her.

Typically, the priest regarded solitude as a blessing which rarely visited him; his only regret about his rise to power was the lack of privacy that accompanied his position. Now, more alone than he'd ever been, Set found himself bored and anxious. His usual method to pass the time-constructing and calculating arithmetic problems in his head-failed to hold his attention as it usually did. The minutes crawled by; insects droned and sweat gathered on Set's brow only to evaporate just as quickly in the sun. How long did it take to gather palm leaves, anyway? he wondered.

"Girl," Set called lowly, grimacing at how his injured state had robbed his voice of its usual imperious authority; he sounded more crabby than commanding. "Are you near?"

No response came. After counting to fifty, he called out again, "Girl!"

Nothing.

Another minute passed, and Set leaned back against the boulder, wearied. His head throbbed dully.

"...Kisara," he whispered to the air.

"Yes?" the girl answered.

Set jumped, barely refraining from accidentally bashing his skull against the rock.

"Don't you make any noise when you walk?" he demanded. Relief and annoyance warred inside him.

"But you must have heard me approach," said Kisara, puzzled, "since you greeted me by name."

Set opened his mouth, then shut it again. "I only meant-moving that quietly, you risk frightening others."

"I do that anyhow," said Kisara. "Thank you, by the way. Your dagger was very helpful. I got the palm leaves. And..." She hurried to lay the dagger and a heavy bunch of oblong fruit in Set's lap. "Dates! The tree must have fruited late this season. I can't believe the river-birds didn't get them all. They'll help with your thirst, so please eat them."

Her high spirits rendered Set mute for reasons he couldn't qualify. Then her footfalls receded slightly, and the priest found his voice: "Where are you going?"

"I'm placing the leaves above you, like I said." Her voice came from the other side of the boulder.

"Are you...climbing the rock?" asked Set.

Kisara made an affirmative noise. Set realized that she must be holding the palm fronds between her teeth in order to keep her hands free as she climbed.

"Be careful," he cautioned, listening to her scramble up the boulder.

The girl made no reply, but soon, Set heard tell-tale rustling noises as Kisara arranged the leaves above his head. A couple times, she descended, gathered some river-stones, and used them to weigh down the fronds atop the boulder. "This way the leaves won't shift accidentally," she explained.

"And what would shift them? The non-existent breeze?" grumbled Set, but without much vitriol. The fruit and the meager shade offered by the fanned-out palm leaves had already improved his spirits a good deal.

Perhaps she's not a simpleton, he reflected while Kisara completed her task. The thought surprised him; he couldn't remember the last time he'd revised his initial opinion about someone. He revised it yet again, however, when Kisara let slip that she hadn't eaten yet.

"You didn't take your share of the dates before you gave them to me?" Set realized.

"You needed the food more," said Kisara.

"You're a homeless vagabond!"

"Yes, but I'm healthy enough, and I'm used to being hungry. You're injured, and you aren't."

Her calm explanation made Set irrationally angry. "Stupid," he spat. "If you falter, we'll both suffer for it. Eat the rest of these right now." He held up the mostly-consumed bunch of dates, which Kisara accepted meekly.

Set stewed as she ate. _Is she really that foolish_? he wondered of Kisara. N _o, she wouldn't have survived on her own if she was. She was probably just laughing at the over-indulgent priest eating like a pig_!

"Dates are my favorite," commented the girl at length. "Do you have a favorite food?"

Sullen and resentful, Set blurted the first thing he could think of to cow her: "The hearts of my enemies."

For a moment only silence greeted his reply. Then Kisara laughed.

The priest's ears burned. He only ever tended to make women laugh when he said something impolitic at palace banquets and a noblewoman tittered to break the resulting tension. Uneven, unpracticed, and entirely without artifice, Kisara's laughter sounded nothing like that. She even snorted a little. Set entertained a brief fantasy of bringing her along to one of those awful banquets, if only to observe the court's collective reaction to her.

"You have a strange sense of humor," Kisara observed.

The initial pleasure Set took in her response made him suspicious, and suspicion made him defensive. "You're the one who laughed," he said more accusatorily than he'd intended.

This, too, Kisara took in stride: "I am strange," she agreed. Then she stood up across from Set. "I will go now," she announced, "to bring back drinking water."

A subtle vein of solemnity ran through her words; Set wondered if he would have been able to tell the difference in her voice if he could do anything but listen.

"You're afraid," he realized.

He expected her to deny it, but Kisara said, "Yes. I don't think the townsfolk will give me anything I ask for. I think they'll chase me away again, or beat me."

After a moment's reflection, Set removed one of the gold bands from his upper arm and held it out to Kisara.

"Don't ask, then," he told her. "Trade."

A long pause. Then: "I-I can't accept..."

"Why not?" demanded Set. "We need water. They won't give it to you freely, so we must give them something in return. This is as good of a bargaining chip as any."

"It isn't dear to you?"

Set snorted. "Trust me, there's plenty more where it came from. Haven't you heard that the very walls of the royal palace are plated with gold?"

"...You live at the palace?"

The wonder in Kisara's tone gratified Set more than he'd expected. He smirked. "I have my own suite there."

Slowly, the girl accepted his offering.

"I will come back as soon as I can, with all the water I can carry," she promised.

"In exchange for that," Set gestured at the arm band, or where he guessed it was, "the peasants should carry the damn water _for_ you."

* * *

Kisara left. To busy himself in her absence, Set made himself a less obvious target for potential thieves. First he shed his belt and ornate tunic. Wrapping the remainder of his jewelry in the garment, he tucked the bundle underneath some stones that abutted one side of the boulder. In his blindness, he could only hope he'd hidden the bright blue cloth sufficiently. Unwilling to put his Millennium Rod so far out of reach, Set concealed it beneath his crossed legs, the fabric of his long kilt acting as a barrier. Clad only in the dirty shendayt, his finery shed, Set would with any luck appear too humble for any opportunistic passersby to bother with. He kept his unsheathed dagger in hand as an additional deterrent.

His appearance altered, Set reluctantly turned his attention to meditating. The wielders of the Millennium Items achieved their magical expertise through study, mock battles undertaken for training purposes, and meditation; generally Set felt he gained the most benefit from the second activity and the least benefit from the third. He failed to appreciate the irony of meditation being the only passtime available to him now. Grumbling to himself, he closed his useless eyes and attempted to empty his mind in order to better access the flow of his spirit-magic.

It was harder than it should have been. Set's thoughts kept returning to the Thief King. Irrationally, Set felt that Bakura had somehow survived the fight in Pharaoh Akhenamkhanon's tomb. Damn Mahaad and his ridiculous plans! It was his fault he was in this mess, Set thought, gritting his teeth in irritation. Mahaad got a pass from most people at court because he acted soft-spoken and even-tempered, but the priest of the Millennium Ring could be the most hot-headed and impulsive of them all. Also, he was an idiot. Set had always suspected it, but after this fiasco, Set knew it to be true.

 _He saved your life_ , whispered a small part of Set.

 _After endangering it in the first place,_ he argued fiercely _. And his transport spell dropped me right into the Black River! I only didn't drown through sheer dumb luck._

 _Mahaad never demanded that you share his battle. He was fully prepared to die killing the Thief. Isn't that admirable, at least?_

 _It only would have been admirable if he had succeeded, and he didn't. If I hadn't fought alongside him, Bakura would have overwhelmed him and stolen the Millennium Ring, and who knows what would have come of that..._

Set blew out a frustrated breath. Thinking about it put him on edge-the opposite of where he ought to be, emotionally. He directed his thoughts back towards the task at hand. He had heard rumors that powerful magic-users could heal personal injuries faster with the right meditative techniques, but, preoccupied with combat magic, Set had never bothered to learn what those techniques might be. Mahaad probably knew the way of it; he enjoyed meditating, Set recalled. He wished now that he'd paid more attention when Mahaad and Isis prattled on about it.

 _When I get back to the palace, I'll force Mahaad to teach me,_ Set vowed _, and in return, I may not yell at him for his incompetence as much as I normally would._

Eventually Set managed to center himself; where natural affinity would have failed him, years of discipline and a lack of anything better to do pushed his mind into something like quietude. The not-so-distant sound of the Black River helped as well. While Set usually thought of his _ba_ as a fire lighting him from within, he now pictured it as a river, for just as the Black River connected and nourished the kingdom of Khemet, Set's _ba_ connected and nourished his body, mind, and spirit. Set allowed each part of his being to fill his awareness in turn: his body was injured and thirsty, his mind, anxious and weary, but his soul felt relatively strong in spite of everything, reassuring Set that his magic would answer should he need to call upon it.

The radiant heat on Set's skin shifted as the hours passed and the sun sank towards the horizon. His long meditation produced no miracles: his injury did not magically heal, nor did his sight return to him. However, the pain in his head had eased somewhat by the time Set registered the chill of evening, and he felt a bit less feverish. When he opened his eyes, he thought he could discern more shades of darkness than before, but that might have been wishful thinking, as when maimed soldiers sometimes swore they could feel sensation in their missing limbs. Set exhaled, grimly resolute where he'd previously been despairing; permanent blindness was preferable to giving Bakura the satisfaction of killing him. He would return to the palace as soon as he had the strength to travel-he would crawl back, if necessary...

Soft but rapid footfalls approached him. Set's hand tightened reflexively around his dagger, and he raised it, tilting his head and stilling his breath to better detect the walker's location. As if sensing his awareness in turn, the approaching person paused. Then to the priest's relief, a familiar voice whisper-called, "Lord Set," from not far off.

"Kisara," Set greeted her, placing his knife aside.

More footfalls, and he could sense when she came into his space, breathing hard; she must have hurried to reach him before sundown proper.

"I got it," she told Set. "You were right. They even gave me a jug and a cup...the jug was a bit cracked but I patched it with mud. I've never _had_ a cup!" Jubilant despite her exhaustion, Kisara placed something heavy on the ground next to Set, presumably the water jug she'd mentioned.

Set smirked. "Of course I was right." He listened to Kisara remove the jug's lid and carefully tip some water into the smaller vessel. However, when the girl took Set's wrist in order to guide his fingers to the lopsided cup in her other hand, Set's smugness fizzled, doused by the sensation of her unusually cool skin against his. It consumed his senses and stirred a memory he couldn't quite grasp. The priest cleared his throat in order to shake off his strange stupor. "You drink first. You had to carry it all this way," he said.

Kisara must have been truly thirsty, because she obeyed without protest. Then she poured another cupful for Set. As he drank, the priest decided that the water was the coolest, sweetest, most perfect thing to ever pass his lips. He couldn't resist a long, satisfied sigh after finishing it.

"It tastes like moonlight," he murmured without thinking.

"What?" said the girl.

Set could have kicked himself. Five hours of meditation had apparently enfeebled his mind. "Nothing! I didn't say anything."

"But..."

An onset of rustling noises interrupted her. As before, Set tensed and took up his dagger. Footfalls closed in around him and Kisara, grass and brush snapping under the weight of many sandaled feet. Kisara drew a sharp breath.

"You were followed," Set surmised grimly.

A nasal voice to Set's right complained: "Hey, I thought this guy was supposed to be rich. He don't look like much to me."

"Shut up, Khui," snapped a man immediately in front of Set. He addressed Set next: "You, rich man! Drop that dagger and tell us where you've hidden the rest of your gold, and we won't hurt you any worse than you already have been."

Set's hackles rose at the robber's superior tone and at the way his accomplices snickered at Set's battered appearance. His good sense won out, however. "I have a counter-offer," he said, baring his teeth in what he knew just barely qualified as a smile. "I keep my dagger but give you all the gold I have. In exchange, you and your men escort us safely to the royal palace, where you'll receive an even greater reward for having helped me."

Whatever response the robbers had expected, it plainly hadn't been that. Set could all but see the men exchanging confused glances in the beat of silence that followed.

"Is he serious?" muttered a new voice.

"He's crazy," said Khui. "There's no way he's actually from the palace! What's he doing all the way out here, if so?"

"That bracelet was the purest gold I've ever laid eyes on," said another man doubtfully. "Maybe he isn't lying."

"Even if he isn't, he'll just turn all of us in to the guards once we get there!"

As the men argued amongst themselves, Kisara whispered,

"I'm sorry, Lord Set. I didn't realize they had followed me."

She sounded so miserable that Set shook his head to reassure her. "Never mind that. Do any of them have bows and arrows?"

"No. The leader has a long knife. The rest have clubs."

Presently, the leader, the man who had told Set to drop his dagger,barked,

"Hey, you two, be quiet! Especially you, witch. In fact, get away from here! This has nothing to do with you."

At his side, Set felt Kisara stiffen. She swallowed, then declared with no trace of anxiety, "I won't leave."

The leader of the robbers hawked and spat. Kisara didn't flinch, but Set heard the glob of saliva strike her. He saw red.

"Leave her be!" he commanded in a tone that had made hardened murderers falter in the past. The man he'd addressed merely guffawed.

"Trust me, rich man, you're better off without that one. Your dick would most likely rot off after you stuck it in her. Maybe that explains your current state!"

Another round of mirth from the robbers.

"That's enough," Set pronounced through gritted teeth. "I'll give you one last chance. I'm not delusional, nor am I lying: I am High Priest Set, a personal guardian to Pharaoh Atem, the Living Horus, divine ruler of Upper and Lower Kemet. I sit at His right hand and in His name I wield the Millennium Rod against all who would do Kemet harm." So saying, Set removed the Rod from its hiding place and held it up for the men to see; perhaps they would recognize the Item, though Set doubted it. He continued, "I honor those who do me service, and I destroy those who stand in my way. Will you help or hinder me?"

Another moment of uneasy silence greeted his words. Then the leader of the robbers laughed.

"Bullshit! You're no fucking high priest. You talk fancy enough, but your accent's all dirt-eating peasant. You're no better than us!" he said.

Years of enduring jibes at court had largely inured Set to pointed remarks about his humble birth, but only insofar as those remarks came from jealous nobles who had been trained to look down on commoners since childhood. For an uneducated thug to hit on one of Set's primary insecurities blindsided the priest. His face burned with outrage and blood began to throb in his ears.

"Intef, maybe he's for real..." ventured one of the other men.

"Don't be stupid. He probably stole that gold from a tomb and got injured doing it. His loss; our gain. I'll have that scepter now, thanks," said Intef, and strode forward to claim the Rod.

Kisara placed herself between Set and the robber before Set could react.

"No," she told Intef. "You won't touch him."

At first, the dull soundof the man backhanding Kisara filled Set with a strange sense of relief, if only because it meant that Intef hadn't turned his knife on her. Then the ugliness of the act sunk in; Set's rage crystalized. He poured his spirit energy into the Millennium Rod, and the Item's innate power met it, amplifying and channelling the resulting magic into a bolt of pure psychic agony that struck Intef like a hammer-blow. Intef screamed, a horrible animal shriek that put Set in mind of a dying hare, and continued screaming as he fell backwards onto the ground.

Pandemonium erupted around Set and Kisara. Most of the would-be thieves fled, their shouts of _witches! witches!_ growing fainter as they retreated. However, two of the men rushed at Set, who picked up on their approach and conjured an illusion in their minds with the Rod. Seeing Ammit the Eater of Hearts barrelling hungrily towards them out of the dark, they screamed and fell over themselves in their haste to get away from Set and Kisara's section of the riverbank.

Set had never before used the Rod in this manner. Even without Priest Akhnadin's frequent warnings against doing so, something in Set rebelled at the very idea of magically manipulating another person's mind. Still, he felt no regret as he returned his attention to Intef. He could not see him, but he heard Intef twitch and sob, and through the Rod, Set sensed his fear. Slowly, unsteadily, the priest rose to his feet and walked forward until he stood above Intef.

"I _am_ better than you," he said, tone clipped and cold. "Men like you rob and enslave and burn villages. Men like me stop you. Though, granted, I don't get many opportunities to stop criminals before they do their damage. I mostly just punish them after the fact. The other priests can be a bit squeamish about punishment, as can the Pharaoh, if you want to know the truth. But I never am, because I know what your kind are capable of. I lived through it." Casually, Set removed the Rod's outer sheath, revealing the sharpened blade at the bottom of the handle. "I should stop you now. I should stop you permanently, before you become something that someone else has to live through."

Still caught in the throes of pain and terror, Intef could only squeak vaguely in response. Set hated him in that moment more than he'd ever hated anyone, save for the men who'd burned his hometown.

"I should stop you," he repeated, half to himself.

"Set," rasped Kisara.

The priest startled. At some point, Kisara had risen from the ground and come to stand beside him. She touched his right arm. As she did, Set realized he was gripping the Millennium Rod so tightly that his hand and wrist muscles shook with it.

"We need to leave this place," she said. "The men who ran away may bring others back."

Set stood dumbly for a moment, teetering on the edge of an abyss he hadn't realized he'd approached. His attention shifted from her cool fingers to Intef's pathetic sniveling and back again. Then, with a sharp exhale, he nodded.

Kisara guided him back over to the boulder. They gathered the bundle of Set's valuables, the cup and water jug, and the knife Intef had dropped. Kisara took the jug and Set tucked the rest under one arm. The night had fallen quiet in the wake of the robbers' chaotic retreat: the only sounds came from singing locusts, croaking frogs, and Intef, who continued to whimper softly on the ground. Set used the Millennium Rod to make him sleep so he wouldn't know which way they'd gone.

"Would you like to spit on him?" Set asked Kisara, shoving the Millennium Rod into the waistband of his kilt.

Kisara considered for a moment. "No," she decided. "It would be a waste of water."

This time, Set reached for her. She grasped his hand and, without any further comment, she led them away into the dark.


	2. Ren

Set and Kisara left the dense vegetation by the riverbank behind, risking a nearby footpath for the sake of faster travel. Neither of them spoke as they walked along the dusty trail. Other nocturnal creatures did: amidst the harmonic vocalizations of insects and frogs, far-off desert foxes yapped every so often, while owls called to each other in low, scratchy hoots. Set listened intently for any signs of pursuit, but the only footsteps he could detect were their own. He nearly jumped when Kisara spoke up suddenly.

"How is your head feeling?"

"It still aches," Set admitted, "but not as sharply as it did."

"That seems like a good sign." She did not ask about the state of his vision, likely because Set couldn't have discerned any changes in the black of night anyway. "Please let me know if you start feeling worse."

"What could you do if I did?" asked Set, unable to keep a note of scorn from his voice. The evening's events hadn't shaken the priest to the point of abandoning his chief coping mechanism, though he now felt vaguely guilty for indulging it at Kisara's expense.

"Find a place where you can rest, I suppose," replied Kisara easily.

Either the girl simply did not understand Set's brand of mockery, or it didn't affect her the way it did the courtiers on whom Set usually honed his sardonic edge. Set supposed that compared with getting spat on or chased with sticks, a snide remark would scarcely register as an offense. However, being sensitive to all manner of slights himself, Set found Kisara's obliviousness strange in the extreme. So much about the girl was odd if not inexplicable, and here he was, allowing her to lead him to an uncertain destination. He hadn't even thought to ask her...

"We're heading towards the capitol?"

"Yes." Her voice betrayed no deception, but Set only grew more apprehensive. Awareness of his essential vulnerability rose in his mind like bile up his throat.

 _How would you be able to tell if she was lying_? a suspicious voice inside him wondered. _You cannot see and you have no idea where you are. For all you know, she could be leading you out to the desert wastelands, or into the hands of more bandits. How much do you truly know about her? What is her stake in all of this?_

Doubt hooking him like an unfortunate fish, the priest halted.

"Lord Set, what's wrong? Is it your wound?" Kisara's free hand brushed against Set's hair as if to check his bandages, but Set intercepted it before she could touch him in earnest.

"You didn't steal it," he said.

"What?"

"The Millennium Rod." Set released her in order to gesture at the object in question. "You didn't take it from me. Why not?"

Surprised, she paused before replying, "It was obviously dear to you-you held onto it so tightly even in sleep. You only dropped it when I jostled you as I dragged you from the river. I'm sorry about that, by the way; you were heavy..."

"Damn your apology!" barked Set. The woman failed to startle at his harsh cry, which somehow irritated him more. "You could have sold the Rod for all the gold in the Pharaoh's treasury!"

"Oh."

"Is that all you have to say, 'oh'?"

"How much bread could all the gold in the Pharaoh's treasury buy?"

"How much br-are you serious?" Kisara did not answer, but when Set realized that she was, he said, "Enough to feed you for the rest of your life, and your children for the rest of their lives, too."

"I have no children."

"That's not the point!" yelled Set. He had managed to ignore the sheer improbability of his rescuer until now, but he could no longer take refuge in willful ignorance. In Set's experience, people simply did not behave as Kisara did: people were selfish and cruel and cowardly, especially towards those they barely knew. The girl's determined kindness made no sense. _She_ made no sense. "Why didn't you steal the Rod, or the gold bands on my arms, or even my dagger? Why did you help me when you could have more easily passed me by?" The more mysteries Set named, the more occurred to him. "Why did you put yourself between me and that miserable thief? And how in the name of all the gods do you know _my_ name? I never told you it!"

"You did."

Her matter-of-fact response brought Set up short. "What?"

"You told me your name. It was a while ago, though. I'm not surprised you don't remember."

"What are you talking about?"

Ever-patient, Kisara asked, "Are you not the Set who, on the night your village burned, helped a girl you did not know escape slave traders? You gave me your name then."

Set's powers of reason deserted him entirely. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, dumbstruck.

"You could have passed me by, but you unlocked my cage instead. You defended me from the slavers and gave me your own horse so that I could ride to freedom."

As she spoke, Set beheld in his mind's eye an unnaturally pale girl huddled in one corner of a barred oxcart. He remembered her desperate grip around his torso as they'd fled the bandit camp on horseback. He had felt strong and brave as he'd ridden away with her, Set recalled. Like a hero out of legend.

"After we parted, I rode all night. I fell asleep riding, but somehow your horse still managed to bring me to the town you'd mentioned," she continued. "I searched for you there because I thought it must be where you lived. I wanted to return your horse and thank you properly. But the townspeople told me that the only boy named Set they knew lived in the next village over, which had been attacked by bandits the night I escaped. They said all the villagers had died in the fighting and the fires. I went looking for you in the wreckage, but I couldn't find you. I thought you had been killed as well." Her voice trembled with emotion. "I should have had more faith that the gods would spare you."

"Not the gods," said Set.

"What?"

"The gods didn't save me. Or at least, no god that's worshipped in a temple." Set had never told anyone, not even Lord Akhnadin, about the white dragon that had defended him from the bandits, destroying them what little remained of his village in the process. The priest had half-convinced himself he'd imagined the creature; he wasn't sure why he felt a need to speak of it now. "...It scarcely matters," he backtracked.

Kisara did not press him for further details. "I know you must hate me," she said at length. "There's no way I can ever repay the debt I owe you, but when I found you in the river, I thought, 'Here is my chance to try, at least.' I didn't intend to deceive you. I only thought you might reject my help if you knew who I was."

Set took a moment to catch up with her logic. "You think it's your fault the bandits attacked?"

"You saved me, and your home burned for it," she replied simply. "I blame myself. You must blame me, too."

A breathy wobble in her last few words warned of Set impending tears. Panic struck him when he heard it. The priest wasn't good with crying women at the best of times; memories of his mother weeping when she thought her son couldn't see or hear her featured heavily in some of his worst nightmares. The prospect of Kisara crying inspired a similar sense of helpless dread in Set. It led him to drop his bundle of jewelry, the cup, and the daggers he'd been carrying in order to grip her shoulders with both hands.

"Listen to me," he said. He barely refrained from shaking Kisara, not out of meanness, but out of a profound desperation to stop the weeping before it began. "Sometimes I regret that I went out riding the night I found you, but that's because I'd fought with my mother right before I left. Sometimes I regret that I gave you my horse, but that's because if I had taken you home with me instead, I might have arrived at my village in time to save my mother. But freeing you, helping you-I've never regretted that. If anyone living bears responsibility for what those slavers did, it's mefor not killing as many of them as I could before they could destroy my home."

"You were a child," Kisara whispered. "There was nothing you could have done to stop them."

"If you believe that about me, then believe it about yourself as well. And if you can't believe it... just know that I don't hate you. I never have."

Set's vehement honesty backfired: Kisara's shoulders began to tremble, and she sniffled, indicating that he had only hurried the tears along.

"Stop. Stop crying," the priest ordered desperately. The girl broke from his hold to turn away; Set reached after her, but his fingers grasped only air. "Kisara..."

"I'm sorry, Lord Set. It's all right. I'm not sad." Kisara spent a few moments getting her bearings, breathing deeply and wiping at her eyes and cheeks. When she spoke again, her voice sounded steadier. "I'm only glad you don't hate me."

Set nodded a mute affirmation, though he had no idea if she could see him. It was strange, now that he thought about it: he'd never experienced any difficulty hating people, often for worse reasons than he would have had to hate Kisara, but no anger or resentment colored his perception of her.

"Even if you did hate me, I think I would still feel glad," continued Kisara, half to herself. "You saved me. Believing that the gods had rewarded your kindness with death was almost more than I could bear. But you're alive." Set heard her turn to face him once more. "I am sorry about your mother."

Her genuine sympathy threatened to wake the old, familiar grief that hovered at the edges of Set's conscious mind. He mastered the sadness with effort, binding it in his heart like a sailor securing the rigging of a storm-lashed ship. "It was a long time ago," he replied. He knew the words were stilted and insufficient, but he had no better ones to offer.

They lapsed into a slightly awkward silence after that. Kisara hiccuped softly as she gathered herself. Set broke first, clearing his throat and blurting, "We should keep going if you feel fit to travel."

"Oh-yes," agreed the girl. "Just a moment."

She shifted closer to Set-picking up the things he'd dropped, the priest realized. He attempted to help by reaching down towards where he thought one of the items had fallen, but his hand brushed Kisara's head by mistake. Her hair flowed like water or silk under his fingers, and Set jerked his hand back as if burnt.

"Forgive me," he said stiffly.

Kisara made no sign she had noticed the faux pas. She returned Set's belongings and, as he tucked them under one arm, she reclaimed his free hand in order to guide him.

They set off once more. Set readily lost himself in the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other. He had no energy to reflect on memories or revelations; only the chill of the night and the sound of his and Kisara's breathing commanded his attention. They travelled on the footpath until they reached a low hill. On the other side of it stretched a wider road capable of admitting carts or livestock. Unlike the footpath, the road did not run exactly parallel to the Black River, but the country it crossed seemed more open. There was room here for breezes to blow, carrying with them the pungent, marshy scent of river mud. Breathing in deeply as they walked, Set thought he could detect traces of animal manure as well.

Kisara confirmed his suspicions: "We're nearing the first farms that surround the great city."

"Have you ever been to the capitol before?" Set asked.

"Once or twice, but never via the main roads. I usually approach from the desert side."

"What? Why?"

"When I've tried to use the city gates in the past, either the guards will not admit me, or folks take notice of me and grow upset that I am there. I cause less trouble if I sneak in."

" _Hmph_. Well, _we_ will go through the main gate," Set declared. He would enjoy sinking his proverbial teeth into any guard stupid enough to try and stop him. "The capitol is far enough from here without adding a trek through the damned desert."

The priest made the last observation with more weariness than he'd intended to show. Since he and Kisara were approaching the capitol from upstream of the Black River, the furthest contiguous farms would be at least an hour's horseback ride from the city gates. The fatigue that Set had been suppressing all night increased tenfold at the idea of walking that distance. His desire for respite rankled his pride: a priest raised in the palace like Mahaad or in temples like Isis or Shadaa might have already yielded to the sheer physical tiredness Set felt, but the first lesson commoners learned was how to sublimate discomfort. Set had thought he'd internalized that lesson better than most, but Kisara was proving the more advanced student, travelling uncomplainingly and unfalteringly despite being shorter and physically weaker than Set. The priest could no longer ignore the possibility that _he_ might have to be the one to request a break. Palace life had made him soft.

His pride was saved, however, when Kisara suggested hesitantly, "Lord Set, since it doesn't seem those thieves are following us, perhaps we should find a place to rest. The city gates won't open until dawn, anyhow."

Set pretended to consider it, though not for very long. "I suppose," he replied. "I have plenty of gold to trade for a night's room and board. We'll convince some farmers to let us stay with them."

"Sleeping inside would be nice," agreed Kisara with a shy eagerness that made Set's chest twinge.

They walked a little further until Kisara spotted a farmhouse, at which point they turned off the main road and approached it. Set knocked on the gate to the home's front courtyard, calling out to the denizens of the house beyond, but nobody responded. Their reticence didn't exactly surprise Set; accidents or natural disasters notwithstanding, few good reasons existed for peasants to open their doors to strangers at night. His patience thinned, however, as he and Kisara received the same treatment at the next house, and the next, and the next.

"This time, if no one answers, I'm yelling 'fire,'" the priest muttered as they made their way to the fourth home off the main road. "How does this house look?"

"Older and smaller than the others. The walls around the courtyard are crumbling, and the gate looks broken."

"Good. The owners may be desperate enough to help us." Set rapped on the broken gate, then cried, "Hello! We require aid! Open up if you can hear!"

"Please," murmured Kisara.

"What?"

"I-I thought, perhaps if we said 'please' this time..."

Set rolled his sightless eyes, but called, " _Please_ come to your door and speak to us. We mean you no harm! Heed us and-!"

Kisara touched his elbow excitedly. "Someone's coming out the doorway!" She paused, then reported, "It's an old woman."

To his surprise, Set discerned a lamplight growing brighter as the old woman crossed the courtyard. Not wanting to startle the stranger, Kisara hid behind Set; her closeness almost made Set miss the sound of the gate creaking open, but he snapped out of it as the old woman raised her light up higher, presumably to get a better look at his face.

"Madam," Set began carefully, "my companion and I-"

An alarmed squeak from Kisara provided his only warning before a bony, sour-smelling bundle of linen enveloped the priest's middle in a fierce hug. The old woman's oil lamp fell forgotten to the ground. A small fire leapt up where it spilled; Kisara darted out from behind Set to kick dirt over the flames.

"Pentu! Pentu, my son! You've returned!" cried the old woman, heedless of the chaos she'd caused. "I knew you would come home to me one day! They told me you were dead, but I never lost hope, and the gods have answered my prayers at last. Oh, Pentu, my beautiful boy!"

"Kisara!" yelped Set, throwing his arms out in an undignified manner to prevent from toppling over backwards with the little old woman still cleaved to him. "Get her off me!"

"I don't wish to frighten her..." Kisara hedged as she finished smothering the oil fire.

" _She's_ frightening _me_! Let go, old woman!"

Set's assailant paid him no mind, crying, "I've missed you so much, Pentu! I was terribly worried!"

The priest dredged up all the calm he could muster, pushing at the crone's shoulders in an attempt to dislodge her. "You have mistaken me. My name is Set, not Pentu. I am a stranger to you."

The old woman finally let go of Set, though she did not back away from him. Set felt a stab of revulsion; the front of her linen gown had felt greasy against his bare torso, and up close, her breath smelled of tooth decay.

"Don't be ridiculous! How can you say such a thing to your poor mother after so long? After I thought the invaders had killed you!" cried the old woman.

 _Invaders_? _But foreign armies haven't threatened Kemet since Akhenamkanon's time_ , thought Set. Clearly the woman was senile or insane.

"I am not who you think," he protested, but a gnarled, arthritic hand clutched at his wrist, cutting him off before he could say more.

"Pentu, you must remember me," exhorted the old woman. "I am your mother! You _must_!"

The last of Set's patience evaporated under a flash of white-hot indignation. He yanked his arm away from her.

"I must do nothing. You are no mother of mine!" he shouted.

In the silence that descended afterwards, Set knew he had made a mistake. The old woman confirmed it with a high, thin wail that quickly bloomed into full-on weeping. She collapsed to the ground, wracked with sobs she made no effort to suppress or modulate: her cries rang through the night like the loudest, ugliest birdsong Set had ever heard. Unable to tolerate it, the priest whirled and marched back down the trail towards the main road. The hag's snivelling followed him, though the roar of blood in his ears did a good job of drowning it out.

 _Ra and Horus, deliver me from crying women_! he seethed. No sooner had he finished the prayer than his slippered foot caught on a rock. He stumbled and only just managed to catch his balance, swearing in a manner thoroughly unbefitting of a high priest, or indeed anyone who had just invoked the gods. His indignation gave way to unease as he realized he could not make it far without Kisara for guidance. He paused, listening for the footfalls he'd grown familiar with over the course of the night. Kisara joined him after a long minute of quiet, during which Set almost-almost-worried.

"What a farce," Set commented by way of greeting as the girl came to a stop beside him. "Ridiculous. We'll go back to one of the other places..."

"Lord Set," Kisara interrupted.

Her tone was outwardly neutral, but Set detected a thread of censure woven into the tapestry of those two words. It stopped him short. He had never heard Kisara pass judgment on someone. When she'd spoken about her own mistreatment, she had sounded tired or regretful at worst; nothing in her voice had hinted at indignation or the idea that things should be any different. Even now Kisara's admonishment was subtle, barely more forceful than a mother intercepting an infant's hand before the child grasped something forbidden, but its mere presence inspired some embarrassment from Set.

"I don't like lies or self-delusion. Enabling that woman's fantasy will not improve her circumstances," he protested.

"What else does she have besides fantasy? Poverty, failing health, and an old, empty house; a kind lie would not hurt her circumstances, either."

Set frowned. He hadn't thought of it that way.

"I understand why you said what you did," Kisara went on. "Your own mother was important to you, and that old woman frightened you. People react poorly when they're surprised or afraid. But you are a kind and intelligent person, so I know you could have treated her with more care."

Given the effort Set put into placing himself above the petty, ignorant masses, realizing he had acted in a petty and ignorant manner stung. Somehow, though, Kisara saying that Set could have been kinder affected him just as deeply, if not more so, than the idea that Set counted as "people," or even the implication that he'd been genuinely afraid of a little old hag.

 _You barely care how your own allies perceive you; why should you care so much about what she thinks_? asked the same voice in Set's mind that had doubted Kisara's motives before he had learned her identity.

The answer occurred to the priest almost before the question finished taking shape: _Because_ , he told himself, _she is the only person alive who remembers the boy I used to be_. _Everyone at court knows what I was: a commoner, a dirt-eating peasant. But only Kisara remembers who I was._

And the boy Set had been would have felt nothing but shame at making an old woman cry.

"That was unworthy of me," Set admitted with enormous effort. Every word taxed his pride. Kisara did not antagonize him further by agreeing, which he appreciated. After a moment's consideration, he wondered haltingly, "If we went back, it would only cause her worse pain, yes? There's no way I could-somehow...?"

Kisara took his hand. "It's worth a try," she said.

The old woman was still crying softly outside the courtyard gate when Set and Kisara returned. Set followed Kisara down as the girl knelt on the ground in front of the old woman.

"Madam, this man is blind. Lift your head. See for yourself," she said.

The weeping continued, but after Kisara repeated her encouragement, the timbre of the old woman's sobs changed; Set assumed she was indeed peering closer at him through her tears.

"It has been many years since you two last spoke, and he cannot see, so he did not know you," continued Kisara. "But do you know him?"

The crone's wrinkled fingers touched Set's face. Set did not jump or pull away.

"He is Pentu. He is my son," the strange woman burbled.

Kisara squeezed Set's hand encouragingly. The priest cleared his throat. He forced out, "I am sorry for my harshness earlier, mother. Please accept me again."

As he spoke, he sent a prayer to his real mother's soul: _Forgive my deceit, and know that I would have no mother but you_. He could not imagine his mother taking offense at the charade, however. Like Kisara, she would probably prefer that Set act in the name of kindness over truth.

His mother would have liked Kisara very much, Set realized.

He felt almost relieved when the crone embraced him, reclaiming Set's attention before grief could escape its bonds within him. Now the old lady wept mostly happy tears, though "Pentu's" injury distressed her:

"Those wicked barbarians, blinding my poor boy! No wonder it took you so long to find your way back to me! Well, never fear. We will manage somehow. Come inside, Pentu, come!"

She led Set through the gate and across the dusty courtyard. Covered by a hanging reed mat, the house's doorway began a couple feet up from the ground in order to help keep out dirt and pests. The old woman guided him over the entrance's lip with surprising care, Kisara following close behind.

The house's mud-brick walls, having spent all day absorbing the sun's heat, radiated warmth into the interior by night. Set perceived a general brightening of the space when the old woman built up the fire in the hearth. He could also distinguish the woman's vague outline as she straightened up from kindling it.

"Sit here! You look exhausted." She dragged Set over to a three-legged stool near the fire. Set lowered himself onto it with minimal protest, placing his jewelry, Rod, and cup on the floor beside him. "I will fetch you something to eat."

"May I help you at all, madam?" asked Kisara.

The crone let out a little yelp of shock. Apparently she had been too wrapped up in her prodigal son to truly register Kisara's presence until that point. It said something about Set's overtired state that he almost laughed as the old woman scuttled back like a wary spider.

"What are you?" demanded the old woman of the girl. "Some kind of wicked spirit?"

"I am a person," stated Kisara simply. Something about her tone of voice gave Set the impression that she needed to make that assertion on a regular basis. His amusement at the situation guttered and died, and he broke in,

"She is a true and loyal friend, Mother. She guided me home to you."

"No, my boy, no! You cannot see her; you do not realize she is cursed! Get thee away from here, demon!" The old woman spat on the ground as a ward against evil; it reminded Set of Intef spitting in Kisara's face, and his temper flared.

"She is not a demon!" he cried.

"It's all right, Lord Se... um, Pentu. I can go outside," Kisara reassured him.

Set recalled the wistful manner in which the girl had anticipated sleeping with a roof over her head. "No. Unacceptable. Mother, she is strangely colored, I know, but I promise you, the girl is entirely human."

The old lady hesitated. "Even if she is not a spirit or a demon, I cannot allow a stranger to sleep in my home," she said slowly.

 _You already are_! Set wanted to yell. Instead he blurted, "Kisara is not a stranger. She is my wife."

"What?!" squawked the old woman.

 _What_?! squawked Set's better judgment.

Kisara said nothing at all, though Set could practically feel her shock.

"So you see, Mother, if you send her away, I must go as well," he concluded, shunting his own embarrassment off to the side.

Quiet reigned for a few long seconds after he'd spoken. Set braced himself for another emotional outburst, but to his surprise, the old woman simply crossed the room and rummaged amongst a collection of clay jars and dishes lining the far wall. Set heard the sound of a lid opening and closing again. When the old woman returned to him, she placed a bowl of what smelled like beer-porridge in his lap.

"Eat, Pentu," she encouraged cheerfully enough. "I will make up a cot for you and your wife."

 _Huh!_ mused Set as the old woman bustled off to do so. _That could have gone much worse._ Perhaps the gods had heard his prayer after all.


	3. Ka

One minute, Set was wolfing down the thick alcoholic porridge the old woman had given him; the next he woke curled on the floor in front of the hearth, banked embers warming his back. Someone had removed the slippers from his feet and had covered him with a scratchy homespun blanket. Expecting the fine bedclothes from his sleeping chambers in the royal palace, Set panicked for a few moments before he remembered his predicament and calmed himself. Then adrenaline flooded his veins once more as he realized that he could see the area around him with near-perfect clarity.

The priest sat up. His sore muscles and head injury protested, and his vision went momentarily blurry, but when it resolved, he drank in the shadowy room: its cracked wattle and daub walls, its hard-packed dirt floor covered with flaking reed mats, its narrow windows with their nearly disintegrated shades, and its black-mouthed hearth heaped with glowing charcoal and powdery ashes. He gave an amazed laugh, vowing never to take his ability to see for granted again.

Set left the blanket crumpled on the floor as he rose. He located his dagger, his slippers, the bundle of jewelry, and the Millennium Rod. As he held the last object, the night before came flooding back; he recalled too vividly the surge of power the Rod had granted him in his rage and how tightly he had clung to it. After a long moment of internal debate, he hid the jewelry and Rod inside an empty, wide-necked jug near the hearth. It wasn't fear that made him abandon the Item, he told himself, but prudence, as he had no idea what the old woman would say if she noticed him carrying around a golden scepter. He donned his slippers, stuffed his sheathed dagger into the waistband of his kilt, and walked to the doorway. Rhythmic scraping noises drifted into the house from the front courtyard.

Set stepped over the threshold and out into the early morning. The sun hadn't yet risen, but its light tinged the horizon a light blue that shaded to navy overhead. The only notable feature of the dusty walled courtyard was an open-air cookfire in one corner. Kisara knelt near the fire, rubbing a cylindrical handstone over wheat grains spread across a flat, oblong quern rock. The friction between the two stones crushed the cereal into flour.

Memories of a little girl in a cage collided with the sight of the woman laboring before him, temporarily robbing Set of breath. Because the moon had been full on the night Set had rescued Kisara, he'd long assumed its silvery light had distorted her natural complexion and hair color. However, Kisara was just as pale as Set remembered: unnaturally so. Her skin showed no sign of burning or tanning, and her hair all but shone in the firelight despite its unwashed, unkempt state. Beholding her, a part of Set understood why people might think the girl cursed: there was something eerie and impossible about her person. The rest of him just found that impossibility fascinating.

Perceiving Set's stare, Kisara glanced up from her task. When her gaze met Set's, she froze. Set remembered the lie he'd told the old woman the previous night and his face heated in response. But then Kisara's embarrassed expression transformed into one of curiosity and hope. She rose from the ground, dropped her millstone, and hurried over to Set.

"Your eyes," she breathed, studying them. "You can...?"

"I can," Set confirmed. He smirked, triumphant, and Kisara actually clapped her hands together like an excited child before remembering herself.

"I am happy for you," she said shyly.

Set couldn't think of a good way to respond to that, so he didn't. "You tied back your hair," he said instead, registering the fact for the first time: some loose strands still hung in Kisara's face, but a strip of cloth from Set's former cape secured the majority of it below the nape of her neck.

The girl reached up to touch her ponytail. "Oh, yes." She blushed for some reason, then informed him, "Berenit should be back soon. She went to fetch some vegetables from the garden around back."

 _Berenit? Oh, 'Mother,'_ Set realized. "Then we should fill the water jug and get moving quickly."

Kisara looked taken aback. "Now?"

"Yes, now! Better to go while she's not here to cause a fuss." Noting the girl's troubled frown, Set softened his tone and added, "We'll leave her some gold, of course."

"It isn't that."

"What, then? Are you terribly fond of grinding grain?"

Kisara smiled. Set found himself momentarily distracted by her left incisor tooth, which was slightly crooked, like a small fang. "Nobody _likes_ grinding grain. But Berenit's knees are bad, so she can't do it at all. She's had nothing to eat but beer and onions for days and days."

"You don't want to leave because you're worried about the madwoman?" realized Set.

"She's not mad, she's just old and confused."

"She called you a demon!"

Kisara shrugged ( _Of course that wouldn't bother her_ , Set thought). He felt momentarily annoyed at the girl's skewed priorities-how could she hold a random old crone's needs equal to his?-until he remembered Kisara had no idea of the circumstances behind his recent difficulties, and thus could not know what fueled Set's impatience to get back to the capitol. He crossed the yard and sat near the fire, gesturing for Kisara to do the same.

"I never told you how I ended up in the Black River," he said once she'd settled.

"I wasn't sure you wished to speak of it."

Set shook his head. "In truth, I've been too distracted before now. I owe you an explanation, though."

"You don't."

Set held up a hand to halt her protest. "I do," he insisted, "if only because the trouble that displaced me from the palace could affect all of Kemet, you and that old woman included." After taking a moment to gather his thoughts, he began, "An evil man, a thief named Bakura, seeks the Millennium Items, artifacts of great magical power wielded by the Pharaoh and his guardian priests. If the Items fall into Bakura's hands, chaos and ruin will result. I was injured fighting the thief alongside one of my comrades. Luckily I managed to keep the Millennium Rod from him."

"Last night, you pointed your staff at the man who hit me, and he fell down screaming," Kisara recalled.

"All the Items have special abilities. My Millennium Rod can control human minds. I made him think he was in pain." Regret and vicious satisfaction fought for prevalence inside Set.

"But if you command such power, how can a mere thief threaten you? Is he also a sorcerer?"

"Of a sort. In addition to the magic of the Items, there is another kind of magic that lives in everyone. Do you know the different parts of a human soul?"

"Some of them," said Kisara. " _Ieb_ , the heart, _shuet_ , the shadow, _ren_ , the name..."

" _Ka_ , the spirit, and _ba_ , the life-energy," finished Set, "all dwelling within _khat,_ the body. But sometimes a person's _ka_ can move independently of the _khat_ and take on its own form. If a person is good, his or her _ka_ becomes a benevolent guardian. If the person is evil, his or her _ka_ becomes a demon that influences him or her to commit evil deeds. We high priests of the Millennium Items use our _ka_ -spirits to protect the Pharaoh and Kemet. We also extract the evil _ka_ of convicted criminals and seal them in special tablets."

Kisara's eyes widened fractionally. "You take away parts of their souls?"

Set had anticipated this question; he had raised the very same objection upon first learning about the practice. Now he gave her the answer that High Priest Akhnadin had given him: "A _ka_ -spirit isn't necessarily bound to the soul from which it grew-it's more of an offshoot, like the fruit of a tree. Plucking the rotten fruit leaves space for a healthier one to grow."

"I see." Kisara's shoulders relaxed, though she still fiddled anxiously with one of her sleeves. "I didn't mean to imply..."

The priest waved away her apology, continuing, "Somehow, the thief Bakura taught himself to control his _ka_ -spirit the way we priests control ours. His _ka_ is powerful enough to stand against all of us; it's a terrible monster fueled by Bakura's hatred for the Pharaoh."

"I've heard that the young Pharaoh is a kind and honorable person. Why does the thief hate him?" asked Kisara.

"He was too busy cackling about killing us all to give specifics," said Set dryly. However, against his will, he recalled a few of Bakura's words from the initial confrontation in the Pharaoh's throne room:

" _You say the Millennium Items bring peace? Justice? Don't make me laugh! The Items were born of evil, and their true purpose is to call evil into the world! Place them on the stone tablet in the village of Kul Elna if you don't believe me!_ "

"Madman," Set muttered, shaking his head. He returned his attention to Kisara and concluded, "That is why we must get back to the palace as soon as possible. I am one of the Pharaoh's guardians. I must protect Him."

Slowly, Kisara nodded. "I know what it means to need to protect someone," she replied. Set remembered her shielding him bodily from Intef and thought she truly did. But she went on softly, "I know what it means to be lonely, too. Berenit shouldn't have to feel that way."

"If the thief gets what he wants, she'll have more to worry about than loneliness," argued Set. Even as he said it, however, guilt pricked at his conscience, informing him that while he must return to his duties, sneaking away from the old woman like some criminal no longer felt like a valid option. Kisara was proving irritatingly adept at altering his moral sensibilities. He huffed out an annoyed sigh. "Very well. We won't leave secretly, but..."

The front gate opening saved Set from having to come up with a better plan right then. The old woman entered the courtyard carrying a basket of spring onions, cucumbers, and lettuce. Her dark eyes lit up with delight when they landed on Set.

"Pentu, you've woken!" She scurried over to Set with surprising alacrity, grinning wide and nearly toothless. "You fell asleep in front of the fire last night. The sun god Himself couldn't have moved you! It was just like when you were a little boy and didn't want to go to bed in the evenings. I hope you rested well anyhow."

"I did, thank you," said Set, privately marveling at how lucid and spry the woman seemed compared with the previous evening. The old lady turned to address Kisara, scolding,

"Keep up with that grinding, girl, or we'll have no bread for breakfast."

"Yes, Mother Berenit," murmured Kisara agreeably. She walked back over to the quern, knelt, and took up the handstone again.

The woman nodded to herself as Kisara resumed milling the grain, then told Set in a low voice, "I am afraid that your wife is very disappointing. She barely knows anything about housework. Do you know, she says she's never woven cloth before? I've never heard of such a thing! If it weren't for the state of her hands and feet and clothes, I'd say she lived like a princess her whole life, never doing any work or spending any time out in the sun. That would explain her paleness at the very least..."

Set glanced over at Kisara. Possibly the girl was watching them out of the corner of her eye, but from what Set could see of her, she seemed wholly involved in her task. Feeling oddly defensive on her behalf, he explained, "It's the opposite problem; she is an orphan, and she's lived so meagerly that she never had the chance to learn any skills. Please be patient with her."

"It's too bad she's so inept, whatever the reason." Berenit sounded rueful. "I don't mind that you took a camp-follower for a bride, but you should have picked one who could cook and weave at the very least."

Set opened his mouth to defend Kisara's competence again, but then the second sentence registered. Though his father had died before Set was old enough to remember his face, Set had occasionally persuaded other soldiers in his childhood village to speak about their battlefield experiences in an effort to feel closer to the man who had sired him. Set had first heard the phrase "camp-follower" from some of those soldiers. An elderly woman using the same term was nothing short of jarring, or at least, that was the excuse Set would give himself later for his sputtering response:

"That's... Kisara was never a _prostitute_!"

"Perhaps not; her odd looks wouldn't attract many customers," mused Berenit, "but if she was, you needn't pretend to me, Pentu. There's no shame in a woman doing what she must to get by in this harsh world. As for the rest, it could be worse, I suppose. She works hard, she doesn't talk back or complain, and she doesn't seem to have any diseases, venereal or otherwise..."

"You-I mean, Mother!"

"Oh, don't put on airs, boy! It's a good thing. She's strong and healthy, that one. She even has all her teeth. Hopefully she'll give you many children." The old woman brightened at the prospect. "Now that I think about it, once I train her up, she might make a decent wife for you after all. There's no helping her appearance, but you can't have everything." Satisfied, Berenit patted Set on the cheek. "I take back what I said before-I should have trusted your judgment from the beginning, my wonderful boy! Now stay here for a minute while I get some fresh bandages for that head wound of yours."

The old lady bustled off to the house, leaving Set to stare stupidly at the space she had occupied. The priest only shook himself free of dumbfoundment with conscious effort, and by then, the old woman had returned with a different basket and the three-legged stool from in front of the hearth.

"Pentu, sit here so I can change your bandages." She placed the stool next to Kisara's workspace. Set almost protested for no other reason than his dislike of being ordered about, but he chose the path of least resistance in the end and seated himself as Berenit had instructed. The old woman's fingers were clumsy with arthritis, but they plainly knew their work, unwinding his bandages with well-practiced movements. Set winced as she peeled the last couple layers of fabric from his injury, then sniffed at the exposed area. "No infection yet. Did you tie these, girl?" she asked Kisara

Kisara paused her work to answer, "Yes, Mother Berenit."

"Not too loosely; that's good. Have you had training as a healer?"

"When I was a little girl, a midwife let me work as her apprentice for a short time. She was very old and half blind, so she needed an extra set of hands and eyes."

"Why only a short time? Did the midwife die?" Set asked.

"No." Kisara bit her lip, then admitted, "A baby did. It passed in its sleep the night after I helped deliver it, though it seemed perfectly healthy when it came out of its mother. The family blamed me, so I had to leave town."

To Set's surprise, Berenit snorted disdainfully. "I suppose they thought you had witched its soul away. Well, you look the part, but the midwife should have known better, at least. Sometimes children just die," Berenit's voice went heavy with a well-worn brand of grief, "and only the gods can say why or how."

Struck by her words, neither Set nor Kisara responded to them. Berenit took a fist-sized stone pot from her basket. She removed its lid, scooped out some honey with her index and middle fingers, and applied the sweet-smelling paste to Set's injury. After she had finished, Berenit ordered Kisara, "Bind his wound with the fresh bandages; if I pause to clean my hands in between, the flies will be all over him, even this early."

Kisara jumped to her feet and obeyed, retrieving clean strips of old linen from the basket and wrapping them around Set's head. Had it truly only been a day since she'd last done this for him? Set felt as though weeks had passed instead, though he remembered Kisara's brisk but gentle touches vividly enough. Frowning, he glanced away from Kisara in time to see Berenit raise her fingers to her mouth and suck the residual honey from them. She cackled, musing to no one in particular,

"Blood and honey-that's the taste of life if I've ever sampled it. Finish the flour after you get done with those bandages, girl. I'll bring out the rest of the baking things."

"Yes, Mother Berenit."

The old woman stumped off back to the house. By the time Kisara secured the last of Set's bandages, the sun had crested over the horizon, outshining the stars that had dusted the early morning sky. She finished grinding the wheat as Berenit returned from the house with two conical earthenware molds, a pad of leather, and chipped mixing bowl partially filled with salted water, spices, and a bit of leavening. Berenit carefully set the molds in the fire, one inside of the other, to warm. Under her instruction Kisara transferred the flour into the bowl and hand-mixed the contents into dough.

"Knead it firmly, don't play with it," said the old woman. For the first time, Kisara blushed at her scolding; Set noticed her glance his way as if worried that he'd heard. He kept his eyes on the fire and obligingly pretended to be lost in thought.

After a few minutes, the old woman judged Kisara's work adequate. Protecting her fingers with the leather pad, Berenit removed the molds from the flames and set the pointed end of the inner mold into a hole in the ground near the cookfire. Kisara poured the dough into it, then Berenit placed the second mold upside-down atop the first. Kisara used a crude stone hand shovel to heap some of the fire's coals around the molds so the bread would cook evenly. Set saw the girl burn herself a couple times in the process, but her hands were so scarred and callused from a lifetime of hardship that she barely flinched.

They ate breakfast inside the house, seated in a loose triangle on the floor. The meal itself was meager, consisting only of bread, vegetables, and some more of the beer-porridge, but Set ate with as much fervor and gratitude as he ever had. He was starving; the dates and porridge from the previous day had inadequately fueled his recovering body.

"Young men and their appetites!" clucked Berenit as he reached for another piece of cucumber. Her patronizing tone might have annoyed Set if she hadn't smiled so broadly as she spoke. Kisara grinned as well, though she ducked her head to conceal it.

After their meal, Berenit sent Kisara to one of the nearby canals in order to wash the mixing bowl and the other dishes they'd used. Set tried to follow her, hoping to use the time to formulate a plan for leaving, but the old lady stopped him.

"You should rest, Pentu," she fussed.

"I'm fine," Set snapped, then, effortfully modulating his impatient tone, he added, "thanks to you. I feel much better."

"Truly?" The old woman looked him up and down, assessing his general well-being. With a cunning gleam in her eye, she smiled and said, "In that case..."

Which was how Set soon found himself hip-deep in another section of the canal, a fishing net clutched in both his hands. He spent the first hour there cursing his luck and regretting that he hadn't dragged Kisara away from Berenit's house when he'd had the chance. He regretted, too, that he hadn't been able to think of a better protest than "Shouldn't I avoid getting my bandages wet?" when the old woman had suggested he catch some fish for them. Berenit had simply chuckled in response and advised Set not to put his head under the water.

 _Conniving old hag_ , Set groused, trying and failing yet again to capture a few small fish darting through the current. It had been ages since he'd last done this; certainly his childhood village had boasted its share of fishermen, but because its chief economy had consisted of horse husbandry and training, Set had grown up far handier with a saddle than a net. Noticing a flash of silver beneath the water, he lunged for it, but the foot on which he'd put most of his weight slipped in the silty river-mud; Set barely caught himself in time to avoid plunging face-first into the canal. The water around the priest churned as he stumbled and righted himself, swearing.

A clear, unabashed laugh rang out behind Set. He turned to find a girl about his age watching him from the top of the slope leading down to the canal. She carried a basket of washing on one hip and wore a simple linen wrap dress-obviously a farmer's daughter amused at his ineptitude. Set scowled at her.

"What an expression!" laughed the girl. She carefully made her way down the slope and paused at the water's edge, grinning out at Set. "If looks could kill, I'd be halfway to the _Duat_ by now. Who are you, stranger?"

"No one you need concern yourself with," said Set. "You may go now."

"Certainly I may! I may also stay, as you are not my father to command me." She stuck her nose in the air.

"...Fine." Set turned away from her, holding the cast-net back at the ready. About five minutes and two failed attempts later, the farm girl spoke up behind him again.

"You're very bad at that."

"I am _unavoidably aware_ ," the priest ground out. He'd hoped the girl would get watching him bored and leave, but clearly the gods weren't willing to grant him even that small boon today. "These fish are so small, they swim right through the net."

"I bet I could catch some with it, easy."

Set snorted.

"You doubt I could?"

"You live around here?" Set asked her.

"No, I'm actually a princess in the Pharaoh's court," replied the girl sarcastically. "I just love taking leisurely strolls through backwater farmlands; they're far more refreshing than the palace gardens."

Set couldn't hold back a genuine snicker at that. "Funny-I'm a high priest at court."

"I'll bet. You're snooty enough. Anyway, yes, I live around here."

"Then I do in fact believe you could catch some fish with this. Doubtless you've had more practice than me."

"I'll show you the trick to it if you tell me your name."

"High Priest Set of the Millennium Rod."

"Ha! I meant your real name," said the girl.

"Yours first."

"Redji, Hakab's daughter."

"Pentu," said Set.

"And whose son are you?"

Set wordlessly held the net out to her. Rolling her eyes, Redji kicked off her sandals, set down her clothes basket, and waded into the canal to take it from him.

"Not only are you trying to pounce on the fish with the net instead of throwing it, you're aiming for where the fish are when you first see them. You need to aim for where they're _headed_ if you want to catch any," she explained. "Watch."

They waited a minute for the fish to forget they'd heard movement in their part of the canal. When a group of four immature tigerfish swam past, Redji threw the net some distance in front of them. By the time the net hit the water and its weighted edges sank towards the bottom, the fish were right beneath it. Redji gathered the net like a sack in her hands to prevent them from escaping, then pulled the whole bundle ashore.

"Impressive," Set allowed, following her out of the water.

Redji wrinkled her nose as she inspected her catch. "Tigerfish are good eating, but they're also pretty bony; you won't get much meat off these. The most efficient way to catch fish is to pull a drag-net behind a boat in one of the deeper parts of the river." She flashed Set a confident smile. "Maybe I could show you the best spots for it around here, since you're new to the area."

It suddenly occurred to Set that the water had rendered Redji's white dress more or less transparent, and that she was regarding him with something more than neighborly friendliness and curiosity. The second realization threw him, not because he'd never been propositioned before, but because those propositions had only come after he'd assumed his position at court. Though Set hardly boasted the best pedigree, his status and his closeness to the Pharaoh were enough for many women in the palace. Those women had solicited High Priest Set, however-never just plain Set. For that reason more than any other, Redji's offer tempted him, though her objective beauty didn't hurt either.

"I could be a thief or a murderer," he couldn't help but point out to her.

"Not a very competent one, with a head wound like that. And you're no good at catching things, either. I'll take my chances," the girl countered.

"I'm flattered," Set told her truthfully after a long moment of hesitation, "but I should go now. Berenit is expecting me."

"Berenit? You're staying with that addled old biddy?"

"The same. She thinks I'm her son, but our blood-ties are more distant than that." _Far more distant._ "I've only stopped in to check on her on my way to the capitol."

"You're traveling to the city? What for?" asked Redji.

Set was a bit surprised at how little his refusal had dampened the girl's curiosity. He'd stripped down to his loin cloth to wade in the canal; now he retrieved his kilt and dagger from the stone on which he'd laid them.

"I'm looking for work as a scribe," he lied.

Redji's eyes lit up. "I knew you were smarter than the idiot boys around here! A scribe, really? So you can read and write and do sums and all that?"

"That is the definition of a scribe, yes."

"You know, I bet my papa would hire you. He needs help calculating the crop yields for our next harvest."

"Doesn't he have any sons to help him with that? Or you?"

"We both wish. I'm no good at sums and I don't have any brothers. Papa's been trying to train my cousin so he can take over the farm one day, but Khui's useless. Just yesterday Papa sent him to the next village over to buy some seed, but the idiot spent all the money Papa gave him on something else-probably gambling or women. He even had the gall to tell Papa that witches took it from him and his drinking buddies!"

Halfway through donning and belting his _shendyt_ , Set froze. "...What?"

"I know; what do witches need with money? He's so stupid."

"I meant, what did you say your cousin's name was?"

"Khui," said Redji disdainfully. "Why, does he owe you something? Good luck getting it back."

Forboding spread through Set like a drop of ink through water. He finished tying off the belt of his kilt, slipped his dagger into the band, and set off for Berenit's property.

"Uh, you left your fishing net! And your fish!" Redji called after him.

"Keep them," Set told her.

His pride forbid him from running back to the old woman's home like a frightened rabbit, but he walked as fast as he could and commenced calling for Kisara almost before he'd reached the front gate. No reply came. Set searched the yard and house, then circled around to the vegetable plot. He found Berenit hunched over weeding some onions.

"Where is Kisara?" Set demanded.

"I sent her to fetch drinking water from the well."

"What well?"

"Silly boy! You know the well near Hakab's land."

 _Hakab...that's Redji's father; Khui's uncle._ Too impatient to humor her, Set snapped out, "Which way?"

Something in his tone forestalled any questions the old woman might have wanted to ask. She pointed. "Past the sycamore copse."

Set could see the trees in question about a half-mile down the marshy fields behind Berenit's house. This time, he ran towards his destination. Berenit shouted after him, cautioning Set of his wound, and soon enough the priest's head throbbed in time with the rapid beating of his heart. His lungs heaved and burned as well; apparently, Set wasn't as recovered from the fight with Bakura as he'd hoped. He ignored his discomfort in favor of seeking out the well. If it was anything like the few around his village, it would be situated only slightly back from the footpath.

The ink of dread darkening the waters of his mind further, he passed the group of sycamore trees and kept going. Wild marsh gave way to cultivated fields bordered by irrigation channels. Set turned off onto the first path that looked like it might lead somewhere beyond them. His instincts proved correct; he had only to travel a little ways before he came upon a bare dirt clearing studded with boulders around the perimeter. A simple hole in the ground at the center marked the well. Kisara knelt beside it, lowering a waterskin into its depths with a long rope. She looked up when she heard Set approach.

"Lord Set?"

Set was breathing too hard to reply. _She's alone-thank all the gods_! Relief flooded him. He bent over, bracing his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. Kisara began to haul up the full waterskin as quickly as she could, concern writ large across her face.

"What's wrong? Is it Berenit?" she fretted.

Set shook his head, waving a hand to indicate that all was well despite appearances. He straightened up after a few moments and flashed Kisara a rueful smirk, but, focusing on something behind him, the girl's eyes went wide and panicked. She dropped the waterskin, opening her mouth to warn him.

Pure instinct made Set lean forward so that the rock aimed at the back of his head struck between his shoulderblades instead. One of the stone's sharp edges bit into Set's bare flesh, drawing blood. The sheer force of it sent Set sprawling. He caught sight of his assailant as he hit the ground: a man who Set did not recognize, but who he guessed was probably Khui, stood above him, the rock clenched in his hand. Set had been so focused on Kisara he hadn't even thought to check behind the boulders for anyone lying in wait.

 _And me without the Rod. Damn me for a fool_!

Across the clearing, Kisara screamed. Her long, heartbroken cry told Set she didn't realize that Khui had failed to bash in his skull. Set tried to move, but the blow and his subsequent fall had temporarily stunned him. Khui closed in, lifting the rock to strike Set again...

The sky turned black so suddenly that Set assumed he was losing consciousness. Then a wave of power swept over him. Raw magic, a veritable flood of spirit-energy, suffused the air, almost physically palpable in its strength. It overwhelmed Set; even Khui froze in place, choked by it. A burst of star-blue light leapt into the air above the well. Lightning, thought Set, until it resolved into a massive shape.

The white dragon of his youth was every bit as beautiful and terrible as Set remembered, its scales paler than alabaster, its eyes bluer than lapis lazuli. Its bellow shook the very ground beneath the priest, and all at once, Set was thirteen years old again, surrounded by fear and flames, staring disbelievingly as a mighty destroyer-god descended from the heavens to answer his prayer for vengeance, for justice. Presently the white dragon focused on Khui, who dropped the stone, turned, and ran. Pale light built in the dragon's jaws, so bright that Set had to cover his eyes and turn away; he felt the plasma heat of its breath pass over him with a deafening roar. The ground quaked when the burst of light found its target, chunks of super-heated earth spraying up into the air, then raining down around Set.

The priest rose to his hands and knees as the dragon shrieked again. He looked around wildly for Kisara and, finding her, caught his breath: light illuminated her body as if from within, her pale skin and unbound hair shining like moonbeams. Her eyes, however, glowed the same searing blue as the dragon's. She seemed insensate, shock and despair etching her tear-streaked countenance. Above, the white dragon sent another burst of light from its mouth, straight up into the sky.

"Kisara!" cried Set. "Kisara!"

She could not hear him across the clearing. Set half-ran, half-limped around the well. He fell to his knees at her side and shook her by the shoulders.

" _Kisara_!" he implored.

She twitched, then turned all at once to face him. "Lord Set?" she gasped. Her voice had a strange echoing quality to it, as when Mahaad cast his most complex spells or when Isis spoke true prophecy. "You're alive...!"

"You must dismiss the dragon!" Set urged her, drawing them both to their feet. Confused, she glanced up, then recoiled at the sight of the winged beast wheeling overhead, searching for a target.

"What-what is that?"

"That is your _ka_ -spirit!" Set laughed a little crazily; he couldn't help it. _She didn't know? All this power, and she never knew?_

"A monster..."

"No! That is the _god_ who saved my life when the slavers attacked my village. You must have sent it to me without realizing then. But you can control it; it's a part of you."

"I don't know how to make it go away," she said. Her face was blank with shock and shivers racked her body. Acting on instinct, Set released Kisara's shoulders but drew her close, wrapping his arms around her comfortingly.

"Calm yourself and focus inward. Let go of your sadness and master your fear. All is well," he told her.

"All is well," repeated Kisara. Her forehead pressed against his collarbone, she embraced him in return-lightly, as though she were afraid to touch him. "All is well; all is well; all is well..."

Set deepened and evened his breathing. She mimicked him. As her tremors died down, so too did the dragon's cries. Set lifted his eyes upward to observe the white god. It wheeled through the air, banking, dipping, and stretching its mighty wings. Then, as the clouds disintegrated and the sun reappeared overhead, it slowly vanished like a star in the morning sky.

The light shining from Kisara faded around the same time. She slumped, unconscious, in Set's arms. Though it made his back twinge painfully where Khui had struck him, Set scooped her up and carried her away from the well as quickly as he could walk. Curious villagers would descend on the area soon, and he had no desire to be present when they arrived.


	4. Ba

The journey back to Berenit's home was not an easy one: Kisara proved a significant burden for the injured priest to carry, and Set took the long way around in order to avoid coming into contact with any passersby. While he doubted the resident farmers knew anything about _ka_ spirits or magic, he also doubted they would require such knowledge in order to connect the white-skinned, blue-eyed girl with the white-scaled, blue-eyed dragon that had appeared in the sky above them. As such, Set moved quickly and carefully, tense with the fear of detection.

The afternoon sky was clear now. The sun shone as brightly it ever had, and the fields around Set were tranquil. Set could hear a few voices shouting from the direction of the well, but for the most part, the world seemed essentially unaltered despite just having been visited by a god. Still, tarrying in the farming village posed risks Set was not prepared to take. They needed to leave, and soon.

Berenit had been driven half hysterical with worry by the time Set returned to her house. The old woman viewed the inexplicable roaring, thundering, and darkness in the sky as signs that the invaders from Akhenamkhanon's reign had returned to conquer the capitol. Not bothering to disabuse her of the idea, Set pried himself away from the old woman's panicked grasp and laid Kisara down on the floor of Berenit's home. Then he retrieved his jewelry and the Millennium Rod from the vessel in which he'd hidden them.

"We must get away," Berenit was saying, "but where can we go? They will be all over the river, and the desert is full of bandits and robbers. Oh, gods above, they will make slaves of us all!" She began to cry.

"Enough," snapped Set, agitated.

He stared at the Rod in his hand for a moment, then nudged it with the barest touch of his magic. The Rod hummed to life, licking its proverbial chops in eagerness for another round of domination and pain; Set calmed himself, sharpened his focus and, with effort, dragged the Item's power to heel. _We do this gently or not at all,_ he told it, icy and implacable. The Rod reluctantly fell in line with Set's desires. Carefully, ever so carefully, the priest directed its influence towards Berenit.

"Be calm," he commanded her, and all at once, the weeping woman was. Berenit stood blinking owlishly in the center of her one-room house, the tears still wet on her face. Set felt how delicate her mind was compared to Intef's and knew that a lack of finesse on his part could damage her permanently. "Tell me: does anyone hereabouts own a horse?" he asked.

"Only Hapu," said Berenit faintly. She spoke as though in a dream state. "He lives two houses down."

Gesturing to Kisara, Set instructed Berenit, "Find a cloak to conceal her hair and skin."

For a cloak, Berenit offered up the homespun blanket that Set had used the previous night. Set lifted Kisara so Berenit could drape the linen securely around the girl. He filled an old satchel with some dried dates and all his belongings save for the Rod. Then, with Berenit's help, the young priest hoisted Kisara onto his back, though the weight of her irritated the injury Khui had given him. Thus prepared to leave, Set opened his mouth, intending to command that Berenit forget all about him and Kisara, but he hesitated at the last moment, sensing through the Rod that altering Berenit's memories would cause her fragile mind less trauma than removing them entirely.

"Your son came home to you changed but whole. He brought you these," Set told Berenit, pressing his gold earrings into her wrinkled palm. "He had to leave you again afterwards—he travels to the capitol in order to receive honors from the Pharaoh for his military service to Kemet—but he will return to you soon. Until then, take care of yourself and wait for him. You know nothing about a white dragon or a blue-eyed girl. After I leave you, you will go to bed early, sleep peacefully, and wake refreshed tomorrow."

Staring straight ahead, the old woman gave a wordless nod. Set hitched Kisara higher up on his back, cast a final glance about Berenit's humble home, and departed. Berenit did not follow him, and Set did not bid her farewell.

The path from Berenit's was dusty and deserted. Set knew he'd reached Hapu's residence when the smell of horse came to him on the road. He followed his nose to a paddock behind the farm house. A man-Hapu himself, Set presumed-stood within the fenced-off area, attempting to calm his skittish horse with the aid of a long leather whip.

"Stupid nag," Hapu berated the animal. Thin white scars marred the horse's dark flanks. The horse foamed at the mouth, loose reins flapping against its neck as it reared and snorted. Hapu was so focused on his beleaguered beast that he completely failed to notice Set, who pointed the Rod in the farmer's direction.

"You know," he said conversationally as Hapu froze in place, the whip falling from his nerveless fingers, "if you had shown that you cared for it, I would have given you one of my gold arm bands in return for your horse. As it stands, I think you're just feeling uncommonly generous today. Fetch some water and whatever tack you have."

Trying not to feel too satisfied as Hapu shuffled off to do as Set commanded, the priest leaned Kisara in a seated position against a fencepost. He hid the Rod behind his back so the horse would not be frightened by its shine and climbed one-handed into the paddock. The stallion put back its ears and rolled its eyes, sidestepping away from the intruder. Set did not approach it. Instead, without looking directly at Hapu's whip, he picked it up and threw it away over the paddock fence.

"All is well. It's gone now," he told the horse. The stallion tossed its head and huffed, but Set continued speaking to it with firm, soothing confidence. Gradually, the horse's breathing grew less labored and its ears pricked up. When Hapu returned with a saddle and a water-skin, Set brought the water to the creature himself. The horse drank deeply from the leather bag and allowed Set to rub the white spot on its forehead. Able to inspect the stallion more closely now, Set judged it abused and neglected, but not so unhealthy that it could not make the journey to the palace. It was a hearty, muscular breed that could presumably help plough fields as well as transport humans; it would serve Set well, given that he needed a mount capable of bearing two people.

"What is his name?" Set asked Hapu. The farmer stared dumbly at Set in response. The priest scoffed and returned his attention to the horse-in particular, to the white circle on its brow and the crescent-shaped scars on its flanks. "Khonsu," he dubbed the stallion after a pause. The lunar deity's name was itself derived from the word for 'traveler,' making the title particularly suitable.

"Go back to your house and remember nothing of me later," Set ordered Hapu, and at the Rod's none-too-gentle prodding, the farmer did as he was told. The saddle he had brought Set was a simple square of padded cloth. Set secured it around Khonsu's belly and chest with the attached rawhide straps, then led Khonsu out from the paddock. Khonsu forbore the next few minutes, in which Set somehow heaved both himself and Kisara's unconscious body up into the saddle, with unusual patience.

"You really are too good for that idiot," Set told Khonsu as he took up the reins in one hand. He'd positioned Kisara aside the horse's back rather than astraddle it like him; now, he propped her head and shoulder against his chest and wrapped his other arm around her to ensure she wouldn't fall. "Let's get out of here."

* * *

Despite his eagerness, the priest set an easy pace, not wanting to tire his horse or jostle his passenger. As uniform fields of _enmer_ and barley gradually replaced the village's more varied food plots, Set occupied himself with holding Kisara upright, guiding Khonsu forward, and scanning the road for anyone who might trouble them. There wasn't much to keep an eye on: because shipments of goods were usually transported to the capitol via the Black River, most people who used the overland path were simple laborers and farm hands, too weary and incurious to comment on the cloaked girl sitting side-saddle in front of Set. In fact, the journey's biggest irritant was Set's own physical condition. His cuts and bruises notwithstanding, it had been years since he'd ridden for an extended period of time. Set resolved to work on his horsemanship as well as his meditative techniques after he reached the palace.

The sun, which had been near its apex when the White Dragon had appeared, hovered just above the horizon when Set finally gave into his hunger and dug out a few dried dates from his bag. He chewed the sweet, leathery fruit with an intensity born of boredom and worry: Kisara still hadn't woken, hadn't so much as twitched. She didn't seem injured, but who knew what effect releasing all that power might have had on her spirit? Set knew that her body and soul likely just needed time to recover, but a less rational part of himself had grown more and more uneasy as time had passed.

Just then, as though responding to his thoughts of her, Kisara stirred against Set, murmuring his name in a sleepy, questioning tone. Her blue eyes fluttered open, and Set choked on the last of his dates in his eagerness to swallow it and respond. Damning himself for an idiot, he coughed for a few seconds, then finally just spat the whole wretched mouthful onto the ground, praying that Kisara was still too disoriented to register his blundering. He needn't have worried, however, because Kisara, who had not expected to wake atop a moving creature, nearly toppled off Khonsu as she instinctively pushed her new cloak aside and craned her neck to see why Set had choked.

An undignified minute followed in which Set dropped the reins in order to keep Kisara on the horse while Khonsu, objecting to all the squirming suddenly taking place atop him, tossed his head and turned in a sharp circle, hoping to dislodge one or both of his inconsiderate burdens. The whole debacle ended with Kisara holding the reins in a bemused grip and Set clinging to her in turn. Khonsu, thwarted, put back his ears and stomped his hoof.

"Yes, I know," Set snapped at him irritably.

In the beat of quiet that followed, the humor of the situation struck them. Kisara snorted; Set failed to suppress a smirk; and they both dissolved into relieved, incredulous laughter.

"That was fun," murmured Kisara as their giggles died away and Set unwound his arms from around her torso, "but I don't understand-what happened? Where are we?"

"We're on the road to the capitol. I carried you back to Berenit's house from the well, then we left town."

At the words 'the well,' Kisara froze. Her countenance drained of what little pallor it normally possessed.

"Then that monster...?" she rasped.

"It wasn't a dream. The white dragon is real," said Set. "But as I said before, it isn't a monster."

Kisara did not seem to hear him. She stared at the ground and made no reply. Looking at her, Set felt abruptly adrift, unsure of how to respond. He cleared his throat and asked,

"Are you... feeling all right?"

"Yes," she replied simply.

Set quashed his annoyance at Kisara's reserve. _She probably just needs time to process everything_ , he thought. Rather than prod her any more, Set prodded Khonsu; the horse continued forward, Kisara grasping its mane to steady herself. When the silence between them grew too heavy, Set expounded on his departure from the village. He went backwards in the telling: first talking about obtaining Khonsu, then he informing Kisara of the manner in which he'd left Berenit.

"I don't know that I did the right thing, using the Rod on her," Set found himself admitting.

Kisara surfaced briefly from her own thoughts to murmur, "I think you were kind to give her a memory of her son."

Unaccountable pleasure filled Set at her approval. "I suppose I'll send someone from the palace to check on her after we arrive," he commented. "We'll probably need a surveyor to inspect the damage to the village's well also. Official action will go a long way towards preventing panic; the Pharaoh can't afford to have hysterical farmers on top of all our other problems..."

"Stop," Kisara whispered.

"What?"

"Could you please stop us for a moment?" Kisara asked, her voice strained.

Set did so, asking, "What's wrong?" but Khonsu had barely halted before Kisara was sliding feet-first off the horse's back. For a moment Set thought she had fainted and grabbed for her instinctively, but after Kisara hit the ground, she took off running into an adjacent field of barley, her cloak flaring behind her like wings.

Set grabbed the reins and dug his heels into Khonsu's sides. He rode into the grain after Kisara, calling, "What are you doing?! Wait!"

"Don't follow me! I'll hurt you!" Kisara cried over her shoulder.

Set spurred the horse into a faster gait. Overtaking Kisara, he cut in front of her, but she veered sharply to the left and kept running.

"Just stop for a second!" Set shouted as he followed.

Kisara put on an extra burst of speed. It wasn't enough; a more than capable horseman, Set steered his mount to intercept her again. This time, Kisara skidded to a halt and, cringing back, she put up her hands in surrender and warning.

"Please," she panted, "let me go."

"Go? What are you talking about?"

She looked at him, almost as frightened as she had been at the well, and cried, "I can't control it! If I stay with you, I'm going to end up hurting you, and I couldn't bear that!"

"No one knows how to control their _ka_ from the start. You can learn. I'll teach you," Set asserted.

Kisara shook her head. "No, you can't." At Set's incredulous expression, she said miserably, "The dragon killed that man Khui. I'm a murderer; you punish murderers. You can't help me. You should execute me."

"You're no murderer. You and the dragon were protecting me!"

"I wasn't, though. I thought you were dead. The dragon almost killed you before I realized you weren't."

Set dismounted from Khonsu so he could speak with Kisara face-to-face. "I told you, the white dragon saved me when the slavers attacked my village. It defended me purposefully back then. Any damage it might have done to me this time would have been purely accidental."

"But it could hurt you still!"

"So could this blade!" Set drew his dagger from his shoulder bag and held it up demonstratively. "But just because something is dangerous doesn't mean it's not worth keeping."

Tears filled Kisara's blue eyes. "You don't understand," she choked out. "All my life, I've been called a witch, a bad omen, a bringer of evil. People hate me on sight. They hurt me or drive me away even though I've done nothing to them. I could endure it because I knew that they were wrong, that I _wasn't_ a monster, no matter what I look like. But now..." The tears spilled down her cheeks. "They were right about me. All along, they were right...!"

Kisara sank to her knees, covering her face with her hands in despair. Staring at her, Set involuntarily thought back on his own life: all the snubs and sneers he'd endured for daring to rise above his station; all the resentment his successes had engendered; all the times he'd striven for power despite that resentment, out of little more than a desire to prove his enemies wrong. What would it cost him to see them proven right?

Set knew he was a creature of pride. After his mother's death, pride had given Set new purpose, had led him to defy the fate that evil men had thrust upon him. He saw now that though Kisara strove against her fate as well, her motives for doing so were rooted in different soil. Unlike Set, who wanted to prove his worth to the world, Kisara wanted acceptance and love. If Set failed to defy people's expectations of him, it would show he lacked strength or intelligence or some other merit, but if Kisara failed, it would prove she was fundamentally unlovable—a monster.

Returning the dagger to his bag, Set knelt down in front of the silently-weeping girl. Words of comfort generally eluded him, but authority never did:

"I _do_ understand," he said, injecting as much confidence into his tone as he could muster. "I am a high priest of a Millennium Item. I know every kind of evil spirit the human heart can host, and every kind of human who can harbor them. Your _ka_ is powerful, but it is no monster, and neither are you."

Kisara's hands slowly lowered. She looked afraid to believe him. "But-"

"Am I in the habit of making up falsehoods to spare people's feelings?" Set challenged. "I'm telling the truth. Anyway, evil spirits are ugly, and your dragon is the most beautiful _ka_ I've ever seen."

Shock put an abrupt halt to Kisara's tears; the white-haired girl stared at Set as though no one had ever used the word 'beautiful' to describe any part of her before. Likely no one ever had. Set remembered what Kisara had told him back by the river: _"I am very ugly."_ He'd been too distracted to think about it at the time, but now he could properly appreciate the ridiculousness of her statement. There was nothing ugly about Kisara. In fact, her odd coloration notwithstanding, she was quite...

Set stood, cleared his throat, and continued, "Anyway, if you're concerned about accidentally hurting someone with the dragon, the palace is the safest place you could be. My fellow priests and I can help train you to use your _ka_ properly, and we can keep it contained if you lose control."

"You want me to stay in the palace?"

"Of course!" snapped Set. Belatedly, the priest realized they had never actually discussed what Kisara planned to do after they reached their destination, and for a split second, he panicked; what if she didn't want to remain by his side? Her _ka_ was too powerful to let her roam untrained, yet the idea of keeping Kisara captive after all she had done for him turned Set's stomach. He added in a rush, "It would be safest that way."

Kisara wiped her cheeks dry with the sleeve of her dress. By the time she'd finished, her countenance was composed, if still a bit blotchy from crying. "Then I will stay," she decided.

Set hid his relief by turning to Khonsu. The horse had rewarded its own patience by snacking on some of the ripe barley stalks; Set readjusted his mount's saddle and bridle while Kisara stood and dusted herself off.

"I'm sorry I ran from you," she said quietly.

"The fact that you feel guilty about the destruction the dragon caused is further proof that you aren't a monster. Those who harbor evil _ka_ don't tend to repent their actions," replied Set. He swung into the saddle and held out his hand to Kisara.

"I can walk."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"But I don't want to tire him," said Kisara, indicating Khonsu. "He's been carrying us both for a while."

"He can handle it; you aren't too heavy."

Kisara relented, but rather than going immediately to the horse's side, she approached Khonsu from the front, one hand extended palm-up. She moved deliberately but without fear or hesitation, Set noted, approving. As the horse lipped at her palm for nonexistent treats, Kisara smiled and scratched Khonsu's forehead.

"Khonsu," she said. "Thank you for helping us."

She moved around the horse and accepted Set's help getting onto its back. This time she rode behind Set, sitting astride Khonsu; Set tried not to think about the state of her short skirt under the circumstances.

"It'll be easier if you hold onto me," Set told her, and after a moment, Kisara put her arms around his middle, holding tightly enough to steady herself but loosely enough for Set to move and breathe. The nostalgia that came over Set then surprised him; should a position they'd only ever sat in once before have felt so familiar?

Presently an angry shout disrupted his thoughts: " _Hey_! Hey, you two! What in Osiris's name have you done to my crops?!"

Set and Kisara turned to see a bare-chested, middle-aged farmer running across the field towards them, brandishing a hoe.

"Oh, no," whispered Kisara.

"Of _course_ something like this would happen," Set groused. He pressed his heels into the horse's ribs. Khonsu, reminded of its old master Hapu, needed little encouragement to gallop in the opposite direction of the man chasing them. The farmer hurled curses after Set and Kisara, but Khonsu's hoof beats and the wind in their ears drowned the words out, and soon the three travelers were far down the road, beyond the farmer's indignant reach.

* * *

An hour after nightfall, Set, Kisara, and Khonsu finally reached the main entrance to the capitol. The gates had long since closed, which Set had expected, but he'd also expected to find guards posted outside them; unfortunately, none were.

"They must have stationed all the available sentries closer the palace," Set snarled. He couldn't fault his fellow guardians for that decision, as soldiers would be more effective closer to where they knew Bakura was likely to strike. However, no men keeping watch outside the city meant that Set couldn't command anyone to admit him. The priest glared up at the looming, implacable gates. Crafted of Retenuian cedar and erected during the reign of Akhenamkanon's father, Selk, the doors featured carved and painted images of various major deities and exhortations proclaiming the former pharaoh's greatness. Set huffed out an annoyed sigh.

"We could go around through the desert," suggested Kisara.

Set shook his head, gesturing to the mud-brick walls that extended on either side of the gates, vanishing far in the distance. "We wouldn't reach the end of the walls until morning, anyway." He swung down off Khonsu's back. "There's nothing for it but to wait."

Luckily, they were not the only travelers who had arrived at the gates after hours: a small company of merchants huddled around a fire some distance from the road, their donkeys and oxen unharnessed for the night. Instructing Kisara to keep her cloak on and to wait with Khonsu, Set approached the group. He spoke to the traders in the language of Ashur after hearing their accented Kemetian, which so delighted the homesick men that they invited Set to join them without the priest having to flash any of his gold.

"Bring your horse and woman, too," they urged him. "There is plenty of food."

Set, who had not expected such generosity, beckoned Kisara and Khonsu over to the fire. The merchants gave Khonsu water and feed and insisted Set and Kisara break bread with them, even offering them wine from their home city. In return, when they asked Set about the state of trade in the capitol, he answered honestly and completely, filling them in to the best of his knowledge.

"You are well-informed for a simple traveler," commented one of the merchants, indicating Set's bedraggled state. Set knew his appearance contrasted sharply with his cognizant discussion of local economics.

"The gods are not always kind, even to the well-informed. I hope to change my fortunes soon," Set replied.

"Indeed, may all our fortunes improve," said another of the traders, raising his wine cup in a toast to the heavens.

Unable to resist his curiosity, Set asked, "May I inquire about what brought you to these lands? Kemet does not see much trade from beyond the eastern sea nowadays."

"Desperation, mostly. We deal in incense, and the markets closer to home are saturated. We had to take the risk in coming here."

Something in the merchant's tone indicated that said risk wasn't limited to a long journey. Set raised an eyebrow, silently prompting the man for more.

"Don't think us cowards," the trader continued, a frown creasing his bearded face, "but few of our countrymen would have made the decision to trade with Kemet even if they were in our financial position. There are many disturbing rumors about your kingdom—that it's overrun with monsters, that your priests use black magic."

"We mean no insult, particularly since we haven't seen evidence of any such things in all the time we've traveled here," interjected another merchant.

 _Away from the capitol, you wouldn't have_ , thought Set, though outwardly he sipped his wine and pointed out, "All priests use magic."

The youngest trader, who was probably the son or nephew of one of the other men, spoke up for the first time: "Yes. Our priests chant and say prayers and sacrifice the odd goat or two, and everyone leaves the temples feeling comforted. Sometimes a person recovers from an illness after buying a charm or an exorcism, and that serves as proof that the gods are listening, never mind that a hundred others who bought the same charms and exorcisms die. That is what passes for magic in most of the world."

One of the older merchants reached over and cuffed the young man on the back of the head. "Don't blaspheme," he admonished, but wearily, with the air of one who said the words often to little effect.

Recognizing a part of himself in the boy, Set smirked at him over the rim of his wine cup. "It's that way here, too, mostly."

"Is it? The stories people tell about your country are certainly unique. Spirits and demons, magicians who can tear out the souls of unjust men..."

"Perhaps you're worshiping the wrong deities," suggested Set, who had not had wine in a few days and whose tolerance for the drink had suffered a bit more than he realized. "Kemet's gods are powerful."

"It's odd, then, that one doesn't hear such tales out of Nubia or Ebla, where your gods are also revered."

"In all honesty, I try not to think too much about the gods. Better that men should confine themselves to that which they can see and feel," said Set with a nonchalant shrug.

Another merchant grinned at the youngest Ashurian. "Our new friend is right. Your clan may have taken the name of a goddess, boy, but She won't protect you if you keep poking at the divine."

"Which goddess?" Set asked, curious.

"Our Queen of Heaven, the Lady of Date Clusters. My name is Sharru-Ishtar. Pleased to meet you...?"

"Set."

Sharru's violet eyes lit with recognition. "Set is also a god, yes?"

"A minor one," Set answered, surprised that a foreigner even knew about the deity, "of the sky." Suddenly ill at ease with the subject, Set motioned to the girl sitting beside him. "This is Kisara."

Hearing her name and guessing the context, Kisara nodded politely to the gathered Ashurians from beneath her hood.

"Kemetian women don't generally cover themselves to that extent. Is she Bedu, then?" asked a trader.

"Just because she's all bundled up doesn't mean she's one of the desert nomads. Her husband may just want to stop other men from staring at her," laughed a different merchant.

Set played along with the Ashurians' good-natured ribbing about jealous newlyweds. When he could, he explained to Kisara in quiet Kemetian, "They're assuming I'm keeping you covered with that cloak because I want you all to myself."

Even shadowed by the cloak and tinged with firelight, Kisara's pale face betrayed her blush. She ducked her head to conceal it too late-Set noticed, just as he'd noticed the reddening of her cheeks in Berenit's courtyard that morning. Like then, Set couldn't help blushing himself. He turned away from Kisara to find Sharru-Ishtar studying the two of them over the flames. Set sent the young man a warning scowl, but Sharru just smirked enigmatically. _Nosy brat_ , thought Set.

The evening was cold and tinder was almost nonexistent near the city walls, so Set accepted the Ashurians' invitation to spend the night in their camp. The merchants lent Set a couple thick woolen blankets. He and Kisara lay one on the ground and used the other as a cover; he kept his back to her, his shoulder bag hidden near his feet. Wine and general exhaustion should have put Set to sleep in minutes, yet he remained awake for a long time after everyone else had retired, listening to Kisara breathe. The soft push and pull of air into and out of her lungs both soothed his nerves and demanded all of his attention. He focused it to the exclusion of the crackling fire, the distant, moaning desert winds, and even the shuffling of men and animals around the camp.

Presently Kisara drew a deeper breath than normal, gathering herself to rasp, "Lord Set?"

Instinct kept Set quiet. After a moment's hesitation, Kisara reached out and traced the shallow cut and deep bruise that Khui had inflicted at the top of Set's spine. Her cool, butterfly-light touch took away much of the injury's ache, replacing it with something worse. Insistent longing radiated from where her fingers brushed his flesh. It wasn't just lust she awakened in Set, though that was a large part of it. Something closer to loneliness, hunger, or fearful desperation intermingled with the heat pooling in his groin-emotion and sensation together, too much of both.

"What do you want?" Set ground out, squeezing his eyes closed as though doing so could block out everything he felt. _Coward_ , whispered a voice inside him.

Kisara pulled back her fingers with a gasp. "Forgive me. I only—your wound..."

"I'm fine."

"I didn't wake you?"

"I wasn't asleep."

"If you're cold, I could heat some rocks in the fire and put them under the blanket," she offered.

"That's not necessary," Set told her. Then, frowning, he asked, "Are _you_ cold?"

"Oh, no, not at all. These blankets are very warm."

"They smell like sheep," grumbled Set.

He got the feeling Kisara smiled at that. The tightness in his chest eased somewhat. He tried to put the longing out of his mind.

"Don't worry about me. Just go to sleep," he said.

"First, could you tell me about the palace?"

"You'll see it yourself soon enough."

"I meant, how should I behave there? I don't want to shame you."

"You won't," Set told her immediately. "The Pharaoh and the other priests don't judge people for lacking etiquette, and the other courtiers hate me already, so there's nothing you could do to sully my reputation any further."

"They hate you? Why?"

"I'm a commoner; the aristocracy was never going to be happy about my being part of the Pharaoh's inner circle. I suppose if I'd sought their favor, I could have limited their dislike, but it never seemed worth the trouble." Uncomfortably, Set found himself questioning his ambivalence for the first time since he'd come to the palace. As a high priest, he was untouchable; none of the machinations or power plays that so often dictated courtly standing outweighed the importance of being a Millennium Item wielder. Kisara didn't have that protection, however. "We'll have to ask Lord Siamun and Lord Akhnadin about the best way to present you at court. They may advise that we keep our connection secret, or sequester you in the inner palace, or take other measures to ensure that no one will try and use you to harm me."

"Who are Lord Siamun and Lord Akhnadin?"

"Lord Siamun is the Pharaoh's chief vizier. Lord Akhnadin holds the Millennium Eye. He's my mentor, the one who recognized my potential as a mage and raised me up to the priesthood. He changed my life almost as much as you and the white dragon did."

"He sounds like a good man."

"He's one of the best I know," said Set. "He's also a keen strategist; he'll know what to do."

After a long moment of silence, Kisara said, "I don't want to be a weakness to you, Lord Set. I don't want anyone to hurt you because of me."

Set rolled over. Lying on her side facing him, Kisara looked far more at home in this dark, mysterious hour than in the harsh glare of daylight. Her hair and skin reflected the moon and stars' silvery radiance; her wide eyes glimmered, bright with emotion. Set wanted to tell her that he saw the hand of the gods in their reunion despite his usual lack of religious conviction. He wanted to impress upon her how extraordinary and valuable her white dragon _ka_ really was. He wanted to tell her that he'd break the minds of anyone who dared to hurt her. Instead, acting on a strange, childish impulse, he took her hand, saying,

"I'm not afraid of a few pampered nobles, and neither should you be. We'll manage."

The last thing he remembered before sleep claimed him was the shy but sincere curve of her answering smile.


End file.
